Scars Don't Just Fade
by Siakeruu Arrisorra
Summary: The world will always spin, even when the nations feel upside down. A rewrite of my other fic, Scars. I suggest you read this version if you haven't read the other one; I feel that this is much better. Character deaths are rampant.
1. Funeral

The thing Hungary hated most about the funeral was that there was no music.

No, it wasn't just that. It was because it... It was because the coffin and the hole and the funeral existed in the first place.

He was a _nation!_ It wasn't _right,_ it wasn't _fair, _nobody was supposed to _die _in a stupid war over _nothing- _

She took in a shuddering breath, trying to calm herself down. It was loud, not that it mattered; nobody was at the farce of a funeral aside from the person digging the hole, and he couldn't hear her over the rain. Nothing really seemed to matter anymore. For example, it wouldn't matter if she cried now...

Still, she tried to hold back her tears as she stood there, watching rain slide off the wooden coffin. He was in there- _he _was in there, and he was _dead-_

_It doesn't matter, _she told herself firmly as tears ran down her cheeks. _It's raining, no one else is here, nobody can see you cry. It doesn't matter._

Still she tried to hold it back. She didn't even know why. Perhaps it was for his memory? She had certainly not let him see her cry, not more than twice or maybe three times. She was supposed to be strong. She had been strong. She was strong.

Austria had known that, right? He wouldn't care if she cried now, right? He was in that better place humans believed in now, right?

* * *

Hungary wanted to blame everything on herself. Italy didn't let her, instead blaming himself and becoming withdrawn. Many nations were blaming others, even themselves. For example, nobody saw much of Germany anymore; he was always out or in his study. When he was nearby, one could hear him muttering insults against himself in rapid, soft German. Romano called anything that moved a bastard (but that was becoming normal). Switzerland took a neutral position on it, just as always.

Still, Hungary blamed herself. She was one of the closest to Austria, both geographically and emotionally. She was supposed to notice if he was missing. She should have worried more when he didn't arrive at the world meeting on time. She was supposed to have done _something _for him.

Maybe she could've done something if she learned of his death faster. Maybe she could have tried to save him if she'd caught a faster flight back to his place. Maybe she could've done something besides only show up at his funeral.

America had told her that nothing could have been done. That his land was razed and burned; that his people were all killed, that there was nothing left to save besides a battered, scarred body that barely looked like the Austria anyone knew. He'd looked tortured to the limit, and then some.

There had been a distant look in America's blue eyes then. It had been an entire minute before he'd said, 'I'm sorry', and walked away.


	2. Pasta

Italy set down a steaming bowl of pasta with a soft 'Ve~', spooning out the food onto two plates. He slid one over to Germany, then began eating earnestly.

The blond nation didn't know how Italy could be so happy these days, other than the fact that he didn't fight much- he, Germany, covered for the Italian most of the time. Still, how did the worries of his people not give the Italian stress? There was always a headache pounding away inside his skull. It kept him up at night.

Across the table was an empty third place, one where Japan would sit if he was with them for dinner. It felt strange being only with Italy after so long... He'd grown so used to being part of a trio that only two felt strange.

Japan wouldn't make much of a difference to the awkward silence that they sat in now. He never initiated a conversation, always eating quickly, always waiting to be spoken to. Sometimes, though, his presence was enough to make the other two feel… hmm… normal. Yes, that was it. In these times of constant war, the three had not had dinner together for a while like they used to- Japan was busy across the world fighting his own wars, and while Italy was always with the blond nation, he was useless for talking about war strategy. That was the only thing Germany seemed to discuss these days, anyway. Wars merited a state of constant guard, and he took everything seriously.

Italy was busy eating his pasta, too preoccupied to talk, even if they'd talked about something like wine, tomatoes [wait, no, that was his brother Romano], or pasta. Food, that was much of what Italy was good for, particularly in conversations. Once in Venice, Italy had chatted with a shopkeeper about the quality of red wines and where to grow the grapes for it for _two hours. _Then again, business on that day had been slow, and the shopkeeper had been a woman.

Why did the click of a fork touching a plate have to be so loud? It added to his ever-present headache. Was this what humans called a migraine?

Germany put his head in his hands, leaving his food untouched. From past experience, he breathed through his mouth, knowing that if he smelled Italy's cooking, he would eat it. He didn't want to eat. His stomach felt terrible and he was pretty sure he'd throw the food back up. The stress was getting to him. Once or twice, he had even passed out- thankfully, none of the other countries had noticed or tried to attack then. He had been at his house, and was only out for a few hours.

Germany heard the scrape of a chair- Italy, he thought. Looking up, he saw that he was right. The smaller nation had finished [already?] and was taking his plate to the sink. As he returned, his eyes flicked from Germany's untouched food to his face, then back again.

"Germany, why didn't you eat? Does it taste bad? If it does, I can-"

He held up a tired hand. "It's not you. I don't feel like eating."

Italy tilted his head. "I thought you always had to eat during a war. Everyone has to. Didn't you tell me that during the last big war?"

'Last Big War' meant World War Two. Those were mostly bad memories, ones that he didn't like to touch, ever. There were so many... _things. Things_ he'd done when Italy or Japan wasn't there to see… the terrible ways he'd treated his people…

It still bothered him. The whole business of World War Two bothered him. It kept him from sleeping sometimes. Another side effect was that other countries had the wrong image of him. Hadn't there been times when their bosses were suddenly, strangely evil, forcing them to do evil things? All countries had dark places in their pasts. Germany was no exception, but he was the poster nation for it.

"Ve? Germany?"

Italy's concerned voice brought him back to the present. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"I said I'm fine," he said, a little more than harshly. "I just didn't feel like eating. I'll eat tomorrow, Italy, don't worry. You should get to sleep or something."

Italy gave him one last concerned look before clearing away his untouched plate and utensils. Germany got up from the table slowly and headed to his bedroom.

Everything will seem better tomorrow, he said to himself.

Tomorrow.


	3. Studies

China sat on the floor of his study, surrounded by piles of books, pens, ink, and the occasional plushie. His favorite one- the one shaped like a cat, whom he'd named Shinatty-chan- was perched on his head, the way it always was when he needed to think. He was further equipped with a pen in his right hand and a clipboard on his lap, which had a paper with three columns of figures attached to it. The paperwork from his boss was down to this one paper. It should have been easy; he'd done this type of tax allocation work so many times before in his long years, but it wasn't today.

He glared at it with an intense hatred.

"Ai ya," he grumbled. _No, that one won't work here- they need the sheep. What about here- no, no, how will they survive without their animals? And they need the grain, too, except I need money-_

"CHIINAA!"

The voice was loud, male, and slightly annoying. Interruptions usually didn't bother him too much, but today had decided to be special. Today it made him jump so that Shinatty fell off his head.

This work was important! He'd given specific instructions that he wouldn't be bothered! It could only be-

His eyes widened. Already? He'd summoned him half an hour ago…

Wincing a little, he picked Shinatty back up and placed it on his head again, then thought again and hugged it to his chest. He'd need strength for this, and strength didn't lie in numbers or wealth; no, it was in having a favorite plush when confronting a wild little nation.

Korea bounded into the room. Stacks of books trembled in his wake; a few papers fluttered out of place. China noted their original positions and pointed to the misplaced items, then to their proper places.

Sighing slightly, Korea righted the damage he'd done, straightening the stacks for good measure. He looked up at China for approval. The older nation nodded slightly and went back to his tax paper.

"Hey, hey, China! Don't just ignore me like that!"

No reply. China put Shinatty-chan back on his head, hoping that the younger nation would take the cue, and go away.

He didn't. Oblivious, he went right on talking. "I came for the meeting~ You called me, right? I came really fast, huh? And- oh, is that a Hello Kitty?"

China sighed a little, annoyed already by the waterfall of words."It's Shinatty-chan. Japan gave it to me."

"Knockoff," Korea grumbled. "The only things original he makes are games. And those aren't even original. They were _originally_ my idea. He's such a-"

"The meeting was yesterday," China said, interrupting him. "You sent a representative, remember? It was about supplies and troops."

Korea thought for a second, then nodded. The slightly vacant look in his eyes told China no, he didn't really remember, but he was pretending. Korea did that kind of thing.

"Sure, sure, of course… I remember now. Anyway, you summoned me here, didn't you? There was some kind of meeting, I'm sure of that."

China sighed again. "Not into my study! This is not a playroom."

Korea looked around a bit, eyeing the tottering piles of- well- _stuff_ that China had everywhere. "You sure it's a study? Looks like a maze to me. Except you can cross all the walls."

China whacked Korea with Shinatty, and he laughed, holding up his hands. "Sure, sure. I'll get out. I could give you tips on organizing, though, because I am the origin of organization-"

"Let's go to the gardens," China said, interrupting the other nation for the second time. "We have things to… discuss."

* * *

Russia was also sitting in a study that day, but he wasn't sitting on the floor, or trying to manage papers. No, the Baltics did all the work for him. It was nice to have underlings in a war. People to do your paperwork and your housekeeping, people to blame when things went wrong.

He had spare time, which he chose to use by sitting at his desk, cleaning the blood off his lead pipe. It was a good weapon. A nice little toy. It was certainly intimidating, as far as the Baltics showed, but it was getting old. Patches of rust showed up here here and there- he'd have to clean those off later. And there were a few dents in it, a hole here, a puncture there.

He'd have to use a pickaxe in the next battle, he decided. It would be strange, and it might not serve him the same way his pipe did, but this next battle should be easy. Everyone but Korea knew that China wouldn't be able to give him the land he wanted in return for his allegiance. Everyone but China knew that Korea would turn on the older nation the second he learned of the denial. And everyone but the Asians knew that Russia was going to attack soon.

Maybe even today.

It would be easy to take them all. At the very least, China and Korea would be. Then he could use Korea as a base to invade Japan.

Russia smiled a threatening smile and wiped off the last trace of red, making a decision as he did so. "Latvia!" he called.

"Yes, sir?" someone answered. Latvia poked his head around the doorframe. "I'm here, sir."

"Bring me a smith or someone who can fix my pipe. I'm going to need it."

Russia watched Latvia scurry away, still smiling. This pipe was how he had started his career of war. This pipe would be how he ended it.

And every, every, every country would finally become one.

* * *

_He watched, he waited, he whispered in the shadows. The _Other, _ his unwitting but delightful host, was unaware of his presence. So deliciously unaware. He'd already killed another nation with the body._

Yes, this nation was already widely considered as dark, as evil. Perhaps his own dark nature showed in the way his host acted? He had gone for so long, but his reputation remained in the Other_'s shadow. Soft whispers of torture, of horror, of freezing cold nights and brute force lingered. Much of the world disregarded it now. His story was fading away._

It mattered not. He was back, now, he would lead his host and his already-great land to greater times. To the greatest perfection. He was waiting, for now, until he could take more control for longer periods of time. The first nation had been so easy to kill.

Would the next be even easier...?


	4. Fight

"Keep going! Don't fall back!" Germany shouted.

His deep voice carried over the brown, arid plain to the soldiers and officers. As they heard his orders, they kept marching. Most of the Italian soldiers mixed into the crowd of Germans had to be urged on with pokes and threats.

Italy himself stood next to Germany, on a cliff above the plain. He watched the soldiers cross the land that used to be Austria's.

"Are we claiming this place?" he asked.

Germany shrugged, eyes on the soldiers. "I don't want to, but we have to."

"Why? It'll mean spreading our troops thinner, and that means there'll be more places to send supplies to. We'll have to send pasta everywhere."

Germany shrugged again. "Please don't question my boss, Italia…"

"Is he mean?" Italy asked. "Does he starve you? I would be really upset if I couldn't have any pasta. I wouldn't be able to march at all. I'm surprised I even got to the top of this cliff. Hey, Germany, is that Hungary over there?"

Germany blinked. "What? No, he doesn't starve us, he's just very- Wait, did you say Hungary?"

Italy nodded, pointing across the plain. "See? She's waving a sword at us."

He shaded his eyes with a hand. "So it comes to this…"

Italy gave him a confused look as Germany began barking orders. "Hold formation! Continue to the midpoint, and prepare for the attack!"

Hungary and her army came closer as the Italian-German army advanced. She was at the head of her troops, a bare sword at her left hip, and her hair was tied back. The usual orange flower was gone, replaced by a bloody red one.

"Germany!" she shouted.

Germany motioned for his army to halt, and as they did, he nodded, acknowledging her.

She pointed her sword straight up. "I have come to claim this land and to take my revenge. This is rightfully my land, as Austria and I were allied. Do you yield?"

"Why is she speaking so formally?" Italy whispered, but Germany ignored him and shouted back.

"There is no claim to this land! You may try to take your revenge, but I will not yield. Come and take it if you wish to have it!"

Hungary hesitated, and her eyes flickered to the smaller figure next to Germany. "I have no quarrel with you, Ita," she called. "Leave now, and I will not chase you."

Italy's lip trembled a little, and Germany glanced at him. The small Italian wasn't dedicated to this type of life, and he was very sure he would leave, when-

"No," Italy said, trembling. "I will stay here. With Germany."

Hungary's eyes hardened a little, and she pointed her sword forward. "Then we fight."

* * *

Italy regretted his decision within a second.

As the armies advanced, Hungary moved to the side and watched her army move forward. Germany climbed down the cliff carefully.

"Germany? Can't I just wait here, and, um… wait?" Italy asked hopefully.

"No. You'll be too much of a target. And even if you're a country, I don't want you hurt too badly. The deaths of your people will affect you. Remember the World Wars?"

Italy opened his mouth again to protest, but as a bullet slashed the shoulder of his uniform, he changed his mind and scaled the cliff with Germany.

When they reached the ground, the battle was in full swing. Italy had to concentrate hard to not run away. It was scary- he could feel the wounds and fears and the choking, horrifying deaths of his soldiers. His head and body hurt from all of it and he hadn't even fought.

He hated wars. They _hurt_.

Finally they reached a clear space in the center of the two armies. It was the eye of the storm that had come. Hungary had a determined glint in her eyes, and her sword was out and ready. Germany drew his gun and prepared to fire. Italy reached for his white flag.

Germany touched his arm, not moving his head, keeping a steady gaze on Hungary. "We are not going to surrender, Italia."

"I-" Italy protested, but then Hungary attacked. Taking advantage of the opening, she went straight for Germany's throat. Her silvery blade whirled through the air, and for a second, Italy admired it. Germany jerked back, making Italy stumble, and shot once. His bullet nicked a petal of Hungary's flower as she retreated. She knew better than to try and deflect with her blade.

Here they were, two countries that Italy both loved, fighting in person… to the the death? He wasn't sure. And what would happen if a country received a fatal wound? Would they really die, or would they recover? What was considered fatal for a nation? He'd survived a lot, but it had always been at humans' hands. Never did he remember nations fighting in person. Never had they had such cause to fight. Not even in the Big Wars.

What was going to happen to them?

He didn't want to know. He just wanted to surrender.

But he'd made his decision, even though he regretted it.

* * *

Hungary crouched a little, trying to plan out what she would do next.

If she went right for his leg- no, he'd get her head, what about the arm- no, he'd switch hands and fire with the left. She'd seen him do it before, during World War II, and had often admired his ability with guns.

Now she hated it. She hated that he would even try to take Austria's land- how dare he- and she also hated that he was using Ita's people. Never mind that she had been part of their Axis, never mind their shared history. It didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered.

She sucked in a breath and her plans flew out of her head as Germany fired again. Taking a risk, she lunged straight for his cheek. He sidestepped, as she'd thought he would, and trained his gun on her head.

_It isn't fair,_ she thought desperately. _It's not fair. He has a gun and I have a sword. What was I thinking?  
_  
He fired.

She dodged.

The bullet went out of their little protected clearing, penetrating her shoulder, leaving a line of firey pain behind it. She staggered, left hand over the wound. It was wet, warm, sticky; it didn't feel right. Lifting her hamd to her eyes, she saw that it was bloody.

_That's too much... Humans die from that kind of wound... What about me?_

Germany smiled a cruel smile at her, leveling his gun to her head again. This time, he wouldn't miss. She was sure of that.

And then she closed her eyes, preparing for pain, the end- who knew what would happen?- and missed two key things as her world turned to one made only of the sounds of war.

* * *

Italy was hiding behind a convenient clump of rocks and watching Germany's and Hungary's battle. Nothing eventful had happened yet, nothing had really happened for a while.

Then-

A bullet pierced Hungary's shoulder. A red flower blossomed on her uniform; she put a hand on it and looked dazedly at the red stain of her hand. She crumpled silently, closing her eyes.

_No, no, no, Germany, don't hurt her anymore...  
_  
Germany had his gun leveled and ready to fire. There was an cruel, evil smile playing on his lips.

Germany never smiled like that.

Ever.

Not even during the last Big War.

What had happened to the Germany that he had been allied with then? Where was the one who had only done what he had been told, even if he hated it? Where was the one who knew what mercy was?

Where was the real Germany?

Italy screamed. Germany whipped around- his eyes softened- and he simply slumped over without a sound.

* * *

"Germany? Germany, get up. Come on, please..."

There wasn't a response. Italy knew very well that Germany was out cold, nd that Hungary would get better.

He also knew that if he left them lying there, they would be trampled by the fighting soldiers, and that would be really hard to recover from, even as a nation. He had to get them out of the fighting zone.

It was a good thing Italy knew how to retreat.

He knelt down next to Germany and slung him over his back, struggling to stand up again. When he did, he could barely move. Germany was _heavy._

Move! If you want to save him, then move! Now!

He took a shaky step.

And another.

_Are you going to let them stay hurt like this?! It'll be your fault!_

That did it. He shifted Germany and took off across the plain, darting between soldiers, to the edge of the fight and then some. He set Germany down carefully, then went back for Hungary. The second time going took a while longer, and Italy had to fight a little [it was good he kept a kitchen knife on him]. Within a few minutes, he had both unconscious countries far from the fighting, sheltered beneath a rocky overhang.

Then Italy sat down on the ground, stared at their bodies for a few seconds, and put his head in his hands and cried.


	5. Hospital

Prussia didn't like to pace.

It was annoying [and so un-awesome] when he watched someone walking back and forth, usually muttering to themselves, back and forth. It annoyed him.

But on this day he paced anyway, diagonally from corner to corner of the small waiting room. His brother Germany had been in the hospital for a few days, and so far only Italy was allowed to visit him for any long period of time. Why were nations in a _human _hospital? Why were they in a hospital anyway? And why couldn't he see his own brother for more than an hour? Granted, this hospital was in Italy's land and not his, but it shouldn't matter, should it?

Prussia didn't mutter [that would be really un-awesome], didn't let himself think about anything more than the questions swirling around in his head, only stared at the floor. He just burned energy.

Finally a nurse popped her head around the doorframe. "Mr. Beilschmit? You may come in now."

Prussia lifted his head and whirled around, charging into the hospital's hallways, down corridors that many visits had taught him. The nurse yelled after him, but he mostly ignored her.

"West!" he cried, bursting into the room quite loudly. Next door he heard a shriek and the clink of breaking glass, but he didn't care about that either.

Italy started and smiled, while Germany sat up in the bed. "Good mor-"

"It's awesome to see you concious!" Prussia said, striding into a chair and flinging himself down in it. His run had tired him out some- not that he'd admit it. He took a few deep breaths while Germany blinked and looked somewhat confused. "Why is that? Haven't I been concious before?"

"Every other time I came, you were either knocked out or sleeping," Prussia explained. "But now you're awake! We can talk now!"

Italy was quiet, shaking a little, and Germany looked like he was hiding something in his icy blue eyes. "What?" Prussia demanded. "What?!"

Italy broke down and let himself giggle a bit. Germany sighed and explained: "I was… sleeping… every time you came because that was the only way the nurses would let you in. Said you were disruptive to the healing process or something."

"I am not! I am awesome, completely healthy for everything-"

"Ve~"

"The nurses didn't think so. Why are you here? They didn't send up a notice."

Prussia looked proud of himself. "I came under the name 'Gilbert Beilschmit'."

"That's your human name."

"I know, right? And this time I said I was a friend! So they let me in."

"I'm starting to regret it."

"Anyway, I'm here for a reason." Prussia's voice dropped, like he was about to tell a secret.

"Ve? What's that?"

"I'm busting you two out of here."

Germany's jaw clenched. "East-"

"Shut up. You know you can't stay here forever. They need you back at home. Treaties, things like that. And I've heard talk of a few missions. You can't stay here. Besides, it's been long enough for you to heal. You're a nation, remember? It's not like you needed to be in here for more than two days or so. A week is more than enough. We need to leave, West."

Prussia was never this serious. Germany couldn't recall any time he'd been strict or serious at all, not even when he was raising him, not even when Germany had threatened to stop drinking beer.

"How would you have us leave?" he asked, after a long silence.

Prussia grinned, back to his old bouncy self. His silver hair sparkled in the fluorescent light. "I've got it all figured out."

* * *

Germany finished scribbling the note to the nurses and placed it on his pillow, along with the hospital bill. He took his clothes [Italy had brought a set from the house- he still had the key from old war times] and slipped into the bathroom to change. Through the door, he could hear Prussia and Italy talking.

"I was really worried when I heard about that battle, " Prussia said quietly.

"Ve, I know… and Hungary…"

"What? I haven't heard anything about her."

Germany was surprised- nobody had mentioned Hungary to him, either. His fingers, usually sure, fumbled with a button.

"What happened to her?" Prussia pressed. For once Germany was glad of his brother's nosy nature.

"She nearly died," Italy said in a low voice. "While she was in her own land- before Germany was admitted to the hospital, I remember because I was working on the paperwork when I heard- someone attacked… set her land on fire, killed so, so many people...

Italy's voice broke and Germany heard one last, quiet 've' before he started sobbing.

He finished dressing as quickly as he could and burst out of the bathroom.

"Can we go now?" he asked, a little too loudly.

Italy jumped when he saw Germany re-enter the room, giving a slight hiccup. "Ve! Ger- Germany!"

"Kesesese…" Prussia cackled, acting like there was nothing wrong. " Yeah, let's go, come with the awesome me."

* * *

Prussia's plan turned out to be simple.

Instead of his usual bust-out-the-window strategy, they simply walked out of the hospital while the nurses were changing shifts. There was quite a rush in the halls, and nobody noticed them walking out.

At least, not until they turned the corner of the building.

"What were you doing in a human hospital?" Russia asked casually. "Seems to me like you were doing something _bad, _to be hiding out here."

His voice took on a menacing tone. "And if you do bad things, you should be... punished."


	6. Battles

Italy had reverted to his old habits during a fight- that is, waving a white flag and hiding behind something. In this case, the something was the corner of the hospital.

(Germany had taken his ordinary white flag, but Italy was Italian, and so was the hospital. It had a basket of cloth near its door for emergency bandages... and emergency white flags. Wire and ready twigs were also nearby in their own baskets. The labels said they were to be used for pressure application and emergency splints, but everyone knew the truth.)

Germany himself was out in the lot, sheltered behind a car, and firing. Italy couldn't really believe that Germany- his Germany- would fire on anyone in a place where innocents could be hurt.

But Russia had attacked first.

It was all fresh in his mind, and terrifying, too. Why had the country been in his land? Shouldn't he have asked to visit? Was he going to invade? Should Italy have known?

He moaned and dropped the white flag, pressing both hands to his head. The beginning of a stress-induced headache was attacking him. He tried to distract himself (there wasn't any pasta around, so it wasn't easy). Italy knelt, putting his elbows on the ground and holding his head in his hands.

This position gave him an excellent view of the battle.

Around the lot, it raged on. Russia was fighting with a pickaxe (since when did he carry a _pickaxe?!_). Germany's bullets never hit flesh, only shredding cloth. Italy was glad he didn't try to bring the fight into close range, since Russia was swinging the pickaxe with reckless abandon. He would've been hit for sure. Russia didn't seem to care _what _he did so long as it caused damage, and he didn't seem to care what he hit, either.

Prussia had no weapon (and he wasn't a martial arts expert like China or, for that matter, any of the other Asians) but he wasn't about to hide, either. Instead he positioned himself behind a car, exposing part of his head and torso, calling taunts to Russia.

Italy didn't know what to do.

It was pretty true that he was horrible in a battle situation, even in a minor scuffle. Fighting in the first place was hard. Directing his soldiers against other armies was hard. Coming up with strategies was hard. Even trying to figure out where troops and supplies should go was hard.

He felt useless.

* * *

"_What _did you say?!"

Korea stared at his older brother, eyes full of anger and maybe even hurt. China didn't meet his gaze. The lotus flowers were blooming very well this season. He would have to thank Japan for the idea of growing them here.

"China, are you-"

"Serious," the older nation said flatly. "You're not getting any land from me. Isn't it enough to know that you're helping family?"

"No," Korea said, looking down at the ground. "No, it's not! You promised me earlier-"

"How am I to give you any land? You don't even share a border with me."

"I don't know!"

Korea's voice rose a little with his frustration. "You shouldn't have let your boss sign the contract if you couldn't keep the promise on it!"

"When have we ever had power over our bosses?"

"_I don't know!_"

There was something in Korea that was surfacing- he wasn't sure what it was, though. Plain anger? Something worse, like rage? Frustration? He was sure he was _right, _it said plainly in the contract that China was supposed to give him land in exchange for his alliance. And he was already helping the older nation, his soldiers fought alongside Chinese ones, his supplies and machines were aiding the combined army. Wasn't China supposed to give him what he'd promised?

Or was he never going to fulfill that promise in the first place?

He turned away from his older brother, walking swiftly away with steps bordering on stomps. His hands were clenched into fists.

"Come back here, Korea," China called. His voice wasn't anything Korea expected from him- not even angry, but low, low and maybe sad. "You come back here and face me."

"Make me," Korea answered, childishly. "You can't make me. You broke your promise."

"Do not turn your back to your elders."

"I'm doing it right now! Come and stop me!"

"Japan-"

Korea froze, his eyes wide. China swore, softly, for the syllables that had flown from his lips. Very slowly, Korea turned, with some emotion in him that couldn't be placed.

"What did you just call me?"

"It was a mistake-"

"You called me Japan."

"It was a _mistake,_" China repeated. "Can't you forgive mistakes?"

"It's not like I'm anything like him."

"You look similar from behind," China said, and it was the way that he spoke a little too quickly, words falling over each other when Korea could never recall them doing so before, that made it click.

"You always treated me like I was supposed to be a little copy of him," Korea whispered, too quietly for China to hear. "Always like him. Like I was supposed to be another perfect, quiet little kid."

"Korea," China called again, "come back here."

"You broke your promise," Korea shouted, voice breaking on the last syllable, and this time when he turned away from the older nation, he ran.

* * *

The days after the 'Lot Battle' were hell for everyone.

Media crowded into Italy, demanding interviews from hospital staff, for the retelling of the fight, for the reasons why the Russian man hadn't gone to prison. For the German man's hospital records, for an interview from him, for this and that, and the other thing, too. Romano and the Italian boss had to handle all of it; Italy seemed to be emotionally scarred. Germany and Prussia were kept busy by their boss; France and a few Canadian forces were trying to attack. Russia wasn't going to attack Italy anytime soon, at least, he was dealing with a war from the Baltics (who were supported by Poland) and another war from China, supported by Japan.

(Russia had been right about Korea turning on China; the younger nation had snapped somewhat and gotten his boss to agree that China wasn't going to fulfill the treaty for alliance. The only thing preventing Korea from an outright war was sheer size and the fact that the bulk of the Korean army was helping China. There were rumors of diplomacy missions to his northern counterpart. For now, Japan was sort of mediating between the two of them.)

On the other side of the world, America and Canada were in their own war. England and America had cut off most- if not all- ties, but France was still helping Canada. The younger nation didn't seem to need the help in this war, though. He had his own 'strategy'- exporting spiked brownies to American soldiers. Several articles were written about whether that was playing dirty or not.

Playing dirty didn't seem to matter, though. Not anymore.


	7. Worrying, Talking

"Spain, bastard, where are you?" Romano shouted.

He set down the bag of tomatoes on Spain's table (they were _not_ thank-you gifts, much less any reason to visit early, no; they were just a little… appreciation… thing for letting him, Romano, stay at his house during a negotiation meeting).

"Hey! Tomato bastard! I got… I mean, I'm here!" he yelled, stepping into the main hallway of Spain's home.

Nobody answered, not even human servants or maids or whatever he had now (Spain had gotten a few assistants after the time of colonies). Romano walked along the hallway further, checking rooms with or without their doors shut. But places that the tomato bastard frequented were empty. The library was silent. Spain's kitchen was vacant. Nothing in the laundry room. Dining room was messy, just like usual. The bedroom had no lights on inside.

Romano finished his loop of the house and ended up back in the reception room. The brown bag of tomatoes sat on the table, waiting for Spain. They were garing at him, taunting his effort to gain some kind of ally in this pointless war.

"He-ey! Tomato bastard! Come and get it!" he yelled.

Panic found its way into Romano's voice, and he dropped all pretense of not caring. As evil as Spain had been to him when he was young, he was still something like family. Close to him, to say the least.

"Spain! Answer me!"

Romano wandered around the house again, panicking more. He hadn't eaten since last night, at dinner, and he was losing energy. Should he have eaten breakfast on the plane...?

"Spain!"

Silence.

"_Spain!_"

Silence. Invading, pressing, heavy silence that threatened to suffocate him. Spain was supposed to be here, greeting him, maybe looking at the tomatoes he'd brought. He was supposed to be chattering like those dumb parrot birds. (Spain was loud enough to be heard from anywhere on these grounds.) He was supposed to be smiling like the idiot he was, laughing because of something Romano had done. He was supposed to be... himself.

So where was he?

Romano slumped against a wall to the ground, trying to hold in his emotions, and did that one thing he'd sworn not to do.

He cried.

* * *

_Once-happy-almost-broken Nation cowered in his cell. His wrists were bound together, and he was behind the bars, but really, there wasn't so much of a difference between himself and Nation. They'd both once been great, they'd both fallen so far. There was a shred of pity lurking in his heart for Nation, but he shoved it away. There was no point in pitying prey. _

_A shrub must be pruned in order to grow well. That was something he knew, but the _Other _probably did not. He appeared somewhat more tolerant these days, but it irritated him. There were such obviously __**weak**__ nations- why didn't the others turn on them and cut the extraneous branches of the shrub away? It made no sense to him._

_Nation was so close to breaking. Superior would be happy, oh yes, very happy. He himself would reach his personal goal even faster._

_He'd been so very right about these nations. Since his fall from his prime, they had become __**weak. **__They were indeed easy to prune._

* * *

France was worried.

Was he supposed to be worried? His country was doing fine, actually, his only real issue was in aiding Canada. There were no wars for him personally; the small attacks on Germany had mainly been to keep the other nation distracted, and perhaps to keep him from attacking him first. There was nothing against his traditional enemy England, who was busy with Scotland and Ireland. A little further along the globe, Russia was fighting two wars at once; Hungary was silent and withdrawn. The Asians were too far away to fight him. He hadn't heard from Spain or Prussia in a while, but that was excusable. They were probably worried about a war somewhere.

Still, he worried about something. Exactly what it was, he wasn't sure, but it was there. He wanted to know what was going on with the other countries, even though he knew exactly what was happening. There was that persistent feeling of doubt, that there was something _else _going on. Something secret that he should know about.

The feeling usually meant England was going at a demon summoning or a cult ritual or some other black magic. It meant... it was a sort of thing that wasn't quite forbidden, but was exciting and secret. The feeling pressing at him was slightly darker than that; more urgent, and it felt _dangerous._

He didn't know what to do about it, so he worried.

* * *

It was a pretty morning, Japan thought, the sky was very blue and his gardens were blooming well. The contrast made for a pleasant view. He had never had cause to come walk here in the morning before, and he was quite enjoying it now. Perhaps he would have enjoyed it more if there hadn't been a certain angry Korean beside him, muttering about their older brother.

Japan didn't want to say it, but Korea was _annoying__, _and he would've told his younger brother to shut up if not for the delicate rules of etiquette. Instead, he waited until they reached a little bench beside a pond, and motioned for him to sit down. Korea did so without protest, like a toddler who had no more energy after a tantrum. He didn't say another word. Japan waited, appreciating the silence. He watched the fish swim around the little pond. It was five laps before the other nation spoke.

"Why'd you bring me here?"

Japan didn't answer right away. The simplest answer would cause another tantrum ('China wants to stop fighting') and lying would also cause a tantrum ('You lied to me? Like hell I'm going to work with you!'), so he chose the vague way.

"To talk things over."

Korea glared at him. "Couldn't you do it over the phone?"

Once again, Japan had to choose his words carefully. "I thought it would be best to speak face to face."

The other nation's eyes hardened; Japan didn't have to wonder why. The last time someone had called Korea out, it had been China, telling him bad news. It was only natural that Korea would raise his internal defenses against this visit. Only natural.

He kept repeating the phrase to himself to keep himself calm. Only natural, only natural, don't get mad at him, he hasn't really done anything. Not really. Stay calm.

"China... would like to compromise with you."

"Why isn't he here, then? Why is it you?"

"Because you would most likely attack him or do something equally irrational."

The younger nation fell silent. Maybe he'd been stung by the harsh tone, maybe he'd been hurt by the truth, maybe he just didn't want to talk. Japan knew that promises meant a lot to him. They did for all of the Asians.

Korea wasn't the type to admit that he was wrong. He ignored the earlier snippet of their conversation, bulldozing over it without acknowledgement. "What's he going to compromise over?"

Japan relaxed. He could work with this version of Korea, the somewhat-professional one. If he was a smiler, he would've smiled. "Here are the terms..."


	8. Dungeon Plants

Italy Romano, the personification of South Italy, Italy Veniziano's older twin, was missing.

Of course, it had taken the nations a while to notice. All the nations had assumed that Spain and Romano were simply hiding something, perhaps planning something, in Spain's country. All the nations had assumed that Romano was fine. All the nations had assumed that there was nothing out of the ordinary.

That is, all the nations except for Italy.

That is, the nations had assumed Romano and Spain were fine, until Spain was torched, and there was nothing left standing.

That is, the nations were preoccupied with Spain's destruction to notice Romano's disappearance, until a week or so later.

That is, nobody noticed except for Italy.

* * *

His name. His name... His name was... Romano. He was Italy Romano, older brother of Italy Veneziano. He was the personification of South Italy. He knew who he was.

His condition. He was very cold, but there were no injuries at the moment. Iron cuffs chafed his limbs and made movement uncomfortable. He was not hungry; he had long since passed the point of feeling hunger. It had been a long time since they'd fed him. He was not tired; how could one be tired when they were simply left chained in a dungeon, alone to rot, alone with only his own mind for company?

His location. He was not near his homeland, but he was not far away, either. He could feel it tugging at his heart, gently, the pull of a toddler at its mother. He was somewhere cold, where it hurt to breathe; somewhere dark, where he could not see; somewhere with good acoustics, where he could hear Spain's dying screams for a few blocks of time, until they stopped, and there was no other sound save his breathing.

There were vines blossoming in the dark, sometimes. He could swear they were there, see that they flicked in and out of his sight, could see oh so slightly the tip of a leaf, or the edge of a petal, taunting his inability to see them. He knew they were there. Oh yes, he knew. Romano knew the green vines were there. Sometimes he called taunts to them.

He did not sleep. It had always been hard for him to sleep at night, in the dark (who had invented the siesta? Him, that was who); he did not sleep here, in the dark. Besides, if he slept, the vines might overcome him. Might grow over him and around him and drag him into the dirt. Might kill him. He did not sleep.

He was Italy Romano, left alone in the dark to see the plants that were not there, to remember terrible things, to exist simply, almost beautifully, until the time when the Superior required his death.

* * *

A/N: In case it's not clear, Romano is hallucinating when he sees flickers of green at the edges of his vision- he assumes these are vines or plants.


End file.
